


Bloody

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dark, F/M, M/M, arthur is a psychopath, eames is a psychopath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron





	1. Bloody

Arthur reaches in with his bloody hands and pulls out a handful of intestines, smiling as he works, pulling a loop around a dowel of some sort and then looping again and again, slowly tugging the man's guts out a little bit at a time, like a DIY medieval torture device. His victim makes a low noise of supplication, well past speech, and Eames is instantly hard at the sound, the sound of the dying animal submitting. 

Without his audience, Eames thinks, occasionally horrified but more often aroused by Arthur's darkness, Arthur wouldn't put in quite so much effort. But, he doesn't really know that. He thinks that Arthur spent less time on his victims before Eames, but perhaps it's just a fantasy, that he's had any effect, tugged even slightly into a new direction the arc of that relentless hunger that is Arthur. Arthur likes to hear them scream. He likes to hear them bargain, then beg, then cry, then moan, then make that low noise that fills Eames' cock. He croons to them as they lay dying, and cuts them again and again. 

After, they fuck, face to face, Arthur turning that same intensity, that same dire focus, to Eames' pleasure. 

Arthur is the only man who has ever fucked Eames once he became an adult, the only man who has ever made Eames come just by fucking him, spitting him and splitting him open on the firm stake of his cock. Arthur has a piercing that rubs Eames in just the right spot, again and again, and Arthur likes to take Eames while his victim's body is still cooling, while his hands are still covered in blood. He pulls them down to the floor of wherever they are and claims Eames like a gore-painted angel. 

Ariadne once asked him, before she realized she'd come too close to Arthur's bright sun, that her wax wings were melting, wasn't he afraid. "I'm terrified." She admitted. 

"You should be, poppet." 

Arthur spent hours on her, not long after that. Her death was glorious, and Arthur kept a small piece of her femur in a jar for years, after. He doesn't normally keep momentos, but this one time he does, for Ariadne. Sometimes, he takes it out and puts the piece in his mouth, lets the sharp edges dig blood out of his cheek, before putting it back. He says it tastes like her. 

Eames kept her totem. He likes to play with it on the kitchen counter, while cooking. He finds it restful. 

All the blood is a bit much for him, for himself. His tastes run to desperate boys and girls and the beauty of limbs arranged precisely as he likes them, in intimate tableaux. He graduated long ago from simple strangulation as he fucked them to more complex killings, always, always with the fucking, he has to claim them, feel their lives rush with him into the void as he experiences his own little-death, but fine training in the art of death has taught him to close off the carotid, or the airway, while leaving fewer marks. He appreciates the pristineness of their necks, after. It is worth the special effort. He loves the contrast with the defilement of their last acts - filthy whores in equally filthy motel rooms or back alleys. It is their tawdriness, the odor of their sin, that attracts him. His favorites are teen rentboys, so full of equal amounts bravado and fear. 

Eames _is_ terrified, sometimes, in moments of sanity. Of himself, of the thought that he could wrap his hands around Arthur's neck and fuck him to death, and that Arthur might just let him do it. Arthur, who has no false bravado, no fear. 

But he knows he is safe. 

Eames knows he is the last man Arthur would ever kill. Eames knows he is the last man Arthur will ever kill.


	2. Replete

Arthur tugs and the sharp metal opens Eames up, reaching deep inside him as he's seen Arthur reach with his own hands, his beautiful deadly hands, and he knows he's going to come, bloody and surrounded by the sounds of people dying in fear.

It was one of their enemies - the CIA, perhaps, or some other terrible, clever mind, committing overkill just to get them. Bombing a hospital, just for them. He thinks it's awful. He thinks it's delightful.

Arthur is smiling, blood on his teeth. His hands grip Eames' jacket tightly and he is the one who moans as Eames, irrevocably breached, held belly to belly, grins back at him.

"Mine." Arthur tells him.

"Always." Eames croaks back at him. He puts his hand on Arthur's neck and presses. Arthur tilts into him, his neck is so white, so perfect. It is the last one he will ever hold, ever see. It is Arthur's gift to him, his beautiful neck.

For once in his life, for this his death, he wants to be inside Arthur, feel himself move inside him as Arthur, bloody, has so often speared him. He grips the metal piece protruding from Arthur's back and this time he is the one entering Arthur, with sharp metal bearing the tang of death, taking him, marking him, claiming him.

Eames comes, and feels Arthur gasp into his constricting hand, coming as well, as darkness, and their enemies, begin to close in around them.

Their mouths are close enough to kiss, now, so they do, sealed together as they breathe, each inhalation harder and harder to complete.

Not long now. Their enemies won't get to them in time to part them.

They will each go to their respective gods with the scent of the other's blood and come in their nostrils.


End file.
